Reading is Fundamental
by albatrossfallen
Summary: Reading is Fundamental as told by the characters themselves. Due to the nature of this short story, many dialogues are taken directly from the transcripts. I hold no rights to them and they remain under the possession of Mr. Ben Edlund and the rest of the supernatural production crew.
1. Chapter 1

Time is a curious mistress.

Many events have come to pass since the Beginning. He remembers them all, some through his own eyes, and some through the telling of God himself. They were truly magnificent, all of them. So great and remarkable that only an entity as powerful as his Father could have made them possible. First the Big Bang, then the creation of Heaven, Angels, and the Leviathans, and then, of course, the making of Men, who then took onto creating other wondrous things after his Father stopped creating. Humans. Homo sapiens sapiens. The greatest, the most loved, and the last of God's making. Ones whom he himself has come to adore.

He watched them compete as a species against the Neanderthals. Yes, it is true that he started off putting his bet on their competitive cousins-the pure beauty of Neanderthalic poetry still amazes him to this day-but ultimately Time has made her choice. It was the Homo sapiens that won out. Sometimes, even he struggles with distinguishing God's will with Time's destinations. Sometimes, he wonders if there is even a distinction at all.

This is one of the occasional moments when Castiel cannot help but wonder: was it truly God's will that brought him forth to this dirty psychiatric ward, or was it merely the cold and random dice of Time that led him here? Castiel wishes that he could ask Time herself, but unlike Fate, she is not a friend. In fact, he doubts that she is anybody's friend. Not even God's.

Castiel looks down at Samuel Winchester's face. Sam is hallucinating, and though he resists weakly, Castiel knows that his mind is in a terrible combat against lunacy. Castiel's eyes can see right through his mind, the great sea in turmoil on which the unrelenting tempest Castiel himself unleashed. Overwhelming shame and guilt drowns the angel, but he has no desire for salvation. Let them wash over this body, this angel, once prideful but now reduced to nothing but a sinner stinking of mistakes. Let them torture him, and through agony cleanse him.

"I'm sorry. This isn't a problem I can make disappear. And you know that. But I may be able to shift it," Castiel said to Dean, still staring down at Sam's face. He sits by his bed, carefully examining this wrecked soul, whose misfortune will forever haunt his existence. He has wronged many, slaughtered his own brothers and sisters, and desolated Heaven. Yet, somehow, Sam's insanity remains the worst nightmare into which he has awoken after the Leviathans' possession of his vessel. He wonders why.

"Shift?" He hears Dean's voice. It is trembling in confusion. Ah, yes-as another wave of agony imbued with overwhelming sorrow devours him, Castiel comes to a sudden realization: it's Dean. Dean is the source of all the unease in him. Castiel has let him down. He owes to this human more than he ever did to any of his celestial companions.

Even as these thoughts run through him, and however much he desires to punish himself with the fiery flames of shame, Castiel fails to gather enough courage to look at Dean in his eyes. It is the same cowardice that prolonged his awakening from that fabricated identity they called Emmanuel. Several times he could have reclaimed his memories, but Castiel held on to Emmanuel in fear of reality.

He turns his head and managed to secure a tiny glimpse of Dean's face before his own Grace trembled in shameful protest.

Such sorrow, such anger, and such…confusion were on that face. Dean has survived many trials of violence and never-ending torment, but he is, nevertheless, still a human. A tiny speck of biomass stuck between the great feud of Heaven and Hell. Castiel cannot help but wince at another surge of excruciating guilt shooting through his body, his Grace. How the Winchesters manage to not only survive but succeed in this war, when he himself could not, remains a wonder. Shame. Guilt. Regret. How could he have let these human brothers walk into perils that Castiel himself, a warrior of the Lord equipped with Grace, could not handle?

Dean possesses such marvelously powerful beauty. One that Castiel has let down and brought to the brink of destruction too many times.

"Wait, Cas! What do you mean you can shift it?" Dean's voice summoned him from the depths of his own thoughts.

"It would get Sam back on his feet," Castiel continues look down, avoiding eye contact with Dean. He does not dare look.

He cannot decide if it is relief or despair that once again drowns him as he whispers his final words: "I'm sorry I ever did this to you". He's not even sure if they're meant for Sam or Dean. Castiel feels relief, for insanity seems but a just punishment for him, a deserved ending to his Godforsaken path. Yet, he feels despair because…well, because he did share a profound bond with Dean Winchester once, didn't he?

Castiel gently places his palm onto Sam's forehead. He can feel it-a raging insanity writhing beneath Sam's vessel, right in the core of his soul. Castiel begins the shifting process, summoning that terrifying angst and confusion into his own Grace. It soaks his vessel with endless streams of lunacy, drenching his Grace, his very essence, with wild images of Lucifer and Michael. He knows that soon these personal imprints from Sam will come to pass, transforming into a madness designed solely to engulf him, Castiel, an Angel of the Lord into an internalized Hell.

It is a just punishment, Castiel thought, as he finally gathers enough strength to turn his head around and look at Dean Winchester one last time with his sanity intact-or what is left of it at this point, at least.

What wondrous being. What beauty. Time truly is a curious mistress, powerful enough to make an Angel bow in awe to the mere sight of a lesser being-a Homo sapiens sapiens man he calls Dean.

＊＊＊

In his first few months of insanity, when he occasionally gathered enough strength to open his eyes, Castiel suffered greatly from the sight of Meg. A demon's appearance in the eyes of an angel had not been a pleasant sight to begin with, and it evolved yet into a traumatizing torture with his newfound madness. Her twisted physiognomy whispered words of love and care into Castiel's ears, and they toyed him the same way a trickster might. When Meg teasingly called him Clarence, her face turned into that of Dean's. His mischievous smile would give him a fraction of a second that is worthy of celestial celebration, right before it turns into an evil puddle of blood and flesh, staring furiously at Castiel, screaming rightful accusations and blame. It was the worst part of it all-knowing that the lunacy didn't even need to fabricate anything. All that was required to make him suffer was the recollection of his past mistakes. The appalling greatness of his madness is its self-reliance on truth.

How low had he sunken that Truth should be his torture?

Much time had passed when Castiel finally had his first moment of clear awareness. It was an odd experience, as if he was a blind man who had randomly come across an oasis while wandering through a vast dessert of nothingness. He woke up suddenly from the agonizing loop of insanity. Castiel remembers that moment to the very last detail. It was a Thursday afternoon. He knows this because Meg, for some reason, keeps a calendar by his bed. It must have rained earlier that day, for the air smelled of damp concrete and distant grass. Meg walked into the room with a tray on her hands. She brought food and was friendly, so Castiel's overarching lunacy showed him Dean. He knew it was Meg, but the sight of Dean brought such great solace that he complied swiftly. After all, this madness was his punishment, and this soothing sight is but all a part of a psychotic episode, such that by seeing Dean, he really was punishing himself.

"Here you go, Clarence," Dean's voice was off, very far from what he recalled it to be, but Castiel made do. "Enjoy your meal, sugar." It was odd to hear Dean speaking coyly to him, especially in such demonically flirtatious tone, but Castiel could not bare to lose sight of Dean. So he surrendered.

Not yet fully aware of the fact that he had temporarily snapped out of his madness, Castiel prepared himself for whatever horror that usually followed Dean's appearance. He stared at Dean as much as he could, before his madness turns Dean against his own sanity again. On that particular Sunday afternoon, however, Meg remained Dean, and Dean remained Dean. Castiel thought that it must be a trick by that devilish lunacy, to make him believe that it truly was Dean before him, only to hook him once again to the false belief that he no longer hated him.

But the deterioration did not happen, at least not as quickly as he expected. Castiel timidly waved at Dean, silently asking him to come closer. Dean looked confused, bewildered even, and raised his eyebrow in a way that took Castiel's breath away. The lazy beams of a Thursday afternoon's sky pierced through the window and lit up this miserable room of a certain psychiatric ward. It also lit up Dean's face, illuminating his beautiful jawline, perfect blue eyes, and scruffy chin precisely as how they were when Castiel last saw Dean. It was physically impossible for Castiel to appreciate such bodily features back then, but on that afternoon, after months of erosion from Lucifer's curse, Castiel wasn't so sure about his immunity anymore.

Dean walked up to Castiel and sat by his bed. Castiel, once again, avoided eye contact with him, but Dean just kept nearing. He bent his back and used his hand to fondle Castiel's messy hair. It was soaked with sweat-as it had been ever since endless madness replaced Castiel's waking consciousness-but Dean didn't mind, and Castiel took comfort in knowing that.

But Dean was approaching too quickly, too near. His proximity made Castiel panic. He does not deserve Dean's company, not when he has caused so much misfortune, so much devastation unto him.

"What's wrong, Clarence?" The corners of Dean's lips curled into a dangerous grin. Castiel sheepishly closed his eyes, in the fear that his lunacy would come back any second, bringing back the Dean Winchester he sees everyday: the furious Dean, in the place of this smiling, peaceful Dean.

They remained so for the next few seconds. Dean sat by Castiel's bed, bending over, his face but inches away from that of Castiel's, while Castiel himself shut his eyes closed, every single muscle on his vessel tensed up in anticipation of the continuation of his chosen misery. Fear ran wild on Castiel's face, and it was evident that he feared losing this moment so much that he tossed it away as a preemptive attempt to save himself from heartbreak. He heard light chuckles pouring from Dean's throat, flowing like mercury all over Castiel's chest and onto where his bloodstained Grace was situated. He felt Dean's lips on his own.

Startled, Castiel opened his eyes, only to the sight of Meg's horrific, demonic face. That was the end of the first of his conscious episodes. The world was filled with blood, violence, despair, and justice again.

As more time passed, Castiel learnt to appreciate his random episodes of consciousness. It was as if the madness in him wanted him to rest, so that he remains sane enough to suffer from insanity. He greatly savors these moments, because they are the only time when his hallucinated Dean Winchester does not enumerate Castiel's own faults at him in incredibly violent fashions. Those words leave Castiel no room for escaping, each bringing forth a certain memory of his past that he regrets the most. The killing of the first borns in Egypt, the slaughtering of men, women, and their children during the Bubonic Plague, opening the gate of Purgatory and letting in the Leviathans, and disappointing Dean over and over again-all these memories haunt him, manifested through Dean's screaming and punching and stabbing and hurting him.

It is thus that his conscious episodes have become the only thread keeping him from death, if death by madness does happen to an angel at all. Castiel is glad, even grateful, that his madness has been kind enough to give him a friendly Dean during these moments.

"Darling Cas, it's time to down some pills, sweetheart," Meg walks into the room with a small cup of medication in her hands. Funny humans, she thought, so bold yet so fragile. There is no medication for a soul, at least not one that humans can manufacture. She herself would much rather prefer a soul free of sedation. Raw agony is the key to a classy demonic life.

Cas is sitting on his bed, as he has been for the past few months. Such a stupid angel, this one. She feels a great contempt toward Castiel-how stupid must he have been to sign up for this crap, just for a puny human? She herself wouldn't have done it, not even in exchange of that sweet, sexy little soul of Dean Winchester's. It would be a real treat alright, but Meg would never go kamikaze for it.

The nutty angel is staring at her again. It brings her some unease, but at the same time it also amuses her. Who is he really looking at? She would put her bet on Dean Winchester. That longing in Cas's eyes is so blatantly unpolished that it must be Dean he's seeing. At least so she imagines, because, oh, the things she wouldn't do to that sexy piece of ass.

Then again, the things she would do is probably very different from what Castiel would do to Dean.

Meg walks up to Castiel, grabs a chair, and sits right next to his bed. She takes the meds out of that pathetic little plastic cup, and says to Cas: "Here you go, Lindsay. Time to eat your breakfast." Cas stares blankly at her, his eyes eerily glistening with some form of emotion she does not recognize. Must be an angel thing.

"Don't let me down, Lindsay, don't force the Regina George out of me." How low has she sunken to reference Mean Girls? Then again, Castiel isn't exactly in the right mind to judge her, so she let herself pass this time. Over the course of her performance as a nurse masters here, she has found out that Cas responds very well to that phrase, "don't let me down." She watches him as he hastily grabs all of the pills and downed it in a split of a second. Those words work like a charm. It is as if he fears something awful is to happen to him if ever he lets her down. It is most amusing to watch him panic in fear: Cas has become her new personal chew toy.

"'attaboy," Meg says, patting the angel on his head. She then bends toward him and gives him a tiny kiss on the lips. It is always such fun to observe his reaction to their kisses. She loves that petty gratitude, that humility and self-loathe in him when she kisses him. Such pitiful gratefulness for such blasphemous a gift-a kiss from a demon. Hah! She can just imagine God's face when He finds out that His own son is actually grateful for a kiss from a demon like her. Even Lucifer never pulled such a hilarious insult off.

Castiel tries very hard to savor the lingering taste of Dean's lips on his own. It is difficult, because the sensation is mixed with the bitterness of the pills he just swallowed dry. But he is grateful. Dean is no longer mad at him. Dean no longer blames him. Dean recognizes him as family.

For a very brief moment, in his interminable craze, Castiel is at greater peace than he ever was since his own creation.

＊＊＊

It is the Word of God that strikes him awaken. There shoots a loud "Ping!," and he awakes, at least partially. He feels a weight by his legs, which he is sure belongs to Meg, his demonic caregiver. Castiel knows that he is awake, because his hallucination of Dean Winchester is no more. There is only the ugly, abominable demon sitting next to him, not anyone else.

"Hold on, Aurora, your prince ain't here yet, girl," Meg sneeringly says. She has never seen Castiel do this before, waking up like a zombie at night. Usually he stays on his bed pass five, not moving at all, but occasionally weeping like a five year old boy. Convinced that his tears are probably a magical ingredient of some recipe for some form of spell, Meg has collected them over the months, until one day she found herself practically hoarding bottles and bottles of angel tears and decided it's become kind of creepy.

"You…your face," Castiel says, staring at Meg's face as it shifts rapidly between those of Dean's and Meg's. The hallucinations have not completely disappeared. In fact, Castiel is beginning to doubt that it will ever. Meg's face is becoming more and more dizzying, twirling into a confusing concoction of both Dean's and Meg's features.

"What of my face?" Dean looks back at him and asks.

"It's…" Castiel hesitates, for he has awaken, and that means he has lost the privilege of convincing himself that it is truly Dean who takes care of him. There is no room for debate-he knows with utmost certainty that it is Meg who sits beside him, not Dean. "It's…beautiful," Castiel finally says. He prays to God that she can at least stay visually as Dean for a little longer. Just a little longer.

Miraculously, she does. Meg's face remained that of Dean's, and Castiel can finally look at her the old way again. In retrospect, Castiel will always wonder if it was God's divine assistance that made him see Meg in Dean's image, such that he would have the strength to keep walking, or if it was Mistress Time's cruel joke that henceforth has haunted every waking second of Castiel's existence. In the years to come, even after Meg's redemptive death, he will forever see two separate Deans, one that took care of him in the asylum, and one that he has let down over and over and over again. Regardless, at this very moment, he willingly played pretend. Insanity has softened his mind of steel, and yielded him a victim of affectionate compromises.

"What did you say?" Meg is more than surprised-shocked, even. What is this? An angel complimenting a demon for her looks? Houston, we have a bigass freagin' problem here. Castiel looks at her and repeats himself, his tone much more confident and relaxed than the last.

"What the-" She exclaimed as Castiel almost childishly pulls closer and puts a light kiss on her lips. He is a lousy kisser, and no tongue is involved. It is exactly as how Meg has been kissing him for the past few months here. It seems like Castiel, having so little experience in such things, is replicating what knowledge he has of the art of showing affection. He uses his fingers to rub against Meg's left earlobe, and, with the same pride and request for affirmation a 5 year old boy would when showing his mother a fingerpaint art he made for her, explains:"This is how your distant ancestors in East Africa showed each other affection."

Meg blinks a few times, searching for words to retort, and finally teases him, saying "wow, slow down there tiger, why don't you buy me dinner first?"

Castiel blinks a few time as well, and with what little sanity the Tablet has restored in him, registers that Dean is asking for food. Finally, a task that he is guaranteed to succeed in! "Yes, we must dine. Wait here, I will bring us provision," he tells Dean, and teleports out of the mental ward, leaving Meg completely speechless and bewildered.

He zaps himself, as how Dean would word it, to the nearest Big Biggerson's fast-food joint. He remembers from memories long ago that Dean particularly adores their bacon burger with extra cheese. Castiel had examined the content of such American dish, and learnt that it was very rich in protein, fat, useless calories, and nothing else. He remembers wondering silently as to how Dean managed to be free of cardiovascular diseases-then again, he recalled, with such frequent and rigorous physical tasks a vocational routine, it did make sense that Dean should remain so fit. Castiel doesn't carry any secular currency on him, but he mustn't fail Dean, not again. So, he decides to clear the affable clerk's arteries of accumulating cholesterol as payment. He also remembers to ameliorate his kidney conditions, in exchange of their pie. Castiel must not forget about the pie.

"I am back," Castiel zaps back into his room, and sees Dean hanging up her phone. "I bring food, just as you suggested."

"Wow, Castiel. I knew you were going all Beautiful Mind, but I didn't know that you were this nutty," Meg says.

"Beautiful? Yes, you are very beautiful. All the thorny pain on you…I wish I could help you, but that is the primary aspect of your beauty," Castiel tries very hard to make the best of the situation. He cannot undo what he has wronged Dean in the past, but at the very least he can try to show him his true beauty.

"Hold on there Ginsberg, I just puked a little in my mouth," Meg pretends to gag. It hurts Castiel severely, but he must not show such petty pain. It pales in the face of what he has made Dean go through. So, to show that he is still of practical assistance, Castiel tries to offer help.

"Bananas can cure nausea. The monkeys discovered it first, but your kind caught on very quickly. Homo sapiens are a very adaptive species."

"A demon and a nutty angel living together in a funny farm. Sounds like a cheap sitcom," Meg rolls her eye and sits Castiel down on his bed. He insists that she eats, but quite frankly the only thing Meg craves right now is some fresh human soul. As she bites into the greasy burger, she ponders the possibility of snatching another one of these cuckoo heads without getting caught. She is a demon after all, despite her playing all rainbows and unicorn with this crazy angel for the past months.


	2. Chapter 2

The reintroduction has been…a fiasco at best. Castiel sits in the dayroom, silently staring into the void. What was he thinking? It should not have developed this way. The icebreaker was not supposed to go like that. He has run it so many times in his head, as soon as his Grace started to tremble in the vicinity of Dean's being-the real Dean, that is. He knew it was actually him the moment Dean entered the boundaries of Indiana. Not once in his stay did his hallucinated version of Dean Winchester evoke such great resonance with his Grace. This was good, he thought, because this would be the way he tells Meg from Dean. He then rummaged through his memory, trying to recall what modern humans tend to do in situations like this, but their customs change so quickly and so randomly. Should he say to Dean salve amicus, I greet thee, or what's up homie G? At last his recollection led him to a more casual, humorous, and most importantly intimate form of welcome. He does not wish to startle Dean with too much formality-he knows for a fact that the real customs of a celestial being usually left mortals unremovable marks. The blinding of Pamela remains one of the many mistakes Castiel's lunacy holds as a torture device against him.

When Dean walked through that door with his brother, Castiel panicked like a guilty child before his furious father. Every particle in his being prayed, ever so diligently, that Dean does not yell at him in anger. Castiel had never felt so powerless, so vulnerable, so fragile in his existence, not even in the presence of God. It was as if Dean held his Grace in disposal-and he did, essentially. Castiel firmly believed that the lunacy had rendered him completely empty, save the desire to redeem himself in the eyes of Dean, and his everlasting, hardwired love for God.

And the man stood there, yet the fallen angel, after months and months of torment, still lacked the courage to approach him. Castiel's vessel stared out the window of his room, but he focused on his Grace, which shivered and twirled and writhed in protest. Castiel was not ready to face Dean. Then again, he doubted he would ever be.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said. Castiel could sense his presence in every perceivable way possible. He smelt him, that mixed, conflicting scent of sin and virtue, and he saw Dean's soul, another mixture of contradicting prowess and vulnerability. Dean was, and still is, truly beautiful in the madden eyes of Castiel. How does he compare? How does he even dare be in his presence? But the situation required, so Castiel had no choice but to turn around and greet him.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel forced a smile, though secretly he was ordering every strength in his Grace to prevent himself from teleporting away. "Sam," he added, remembering that Dean loved his brother dearly.

"Hey, Castiel," Sam responded. Castiel found solace in knowing that Sam did not blame him, or held much anger against him. Perhaps he would be so lucky as to have Dean's forgiveness as well?

"Look at you, walkin' and talkin'. That's-that's great, right?" Dean asked him. Alas, Castiel thought, this was a sign that Dean was not as angry as he imagined him to be. This was a good sign. The angel, still shaky in recovery from his lunacy, walked up to Dean Winchester, and attempted to execute his premeditated big welcome as a gesture of apology and friendliness.

He extended his finger.

"Pull my finger," Castiel asked. This was the moment he had been silently rehearsing over and over again for the last few hours. He wanted this to be perfect, to go exactly as he had planned.

"What?" Dean was completely bewildered. He had rushed his ass all the way here to Indiana immediately after Meg's call. He had to see Cas, both for this entire theological disaster and for personal reasons.

But he wasn't truly sure how he felt about Cas. He had never been an expressive man, and even he himself couldn't sort out his own emotions sometimes. He hated Cas, hated how astray he had gone, hated how Cas had more confidence in Crowley than in him, and hated how Cas repeatedly claimed to be his friend while betraying him behind his back with little hesitation. On the other hand, Castiel really was his friend, and he cared for Castiel. This knucklehead had been so obviously different from all the other celestial assholes they'd encountered, right from the start. Castiel cared about them too, and took care of Sammy's problem-even though he was the one who broke the damned Great Wall of Sam to begin with. The only thing that Dean was sure about how he felt toward Castiel was that he's still angry at him, no matter how sorry he felt for Castiel. Dean's still angry, but right now he's just confused.

"Pull my finger," Castiel insisted. There was a glistening, overly polished glimmer of fear in the angel's eyes, and however much anger controlled Dean, it was not strong enough to stop him from answering the poor man. Castiel looked excited and sorrowful at the same time, anticipation and despair both running wild on his face. Dean did not have the heart to let him down.

So Dean pulled Cas's finger, and he immediately regretted. The instant he pulled on Cas's finger, there shot a loud crash, and the light went out and the window and light fixtures shattered. Caught completely off guard, Dean looked at Castiel in surprise. The compromised angel let out a joyful laugh, and the demon turned on a lamp in tired defeat.

A supernatural fart joke? Seriously?

"Okay, just hang on, Cas. Wait. Let us catch up to you for a second," Dean pulled himself together and finally said. They're not here to send get well cards or play Dr. Phil, they're here for business. They had to find out what that damned piece of rock does before Dick Roman finds out, and Castiel might know something. However nutty he had become, he's still from upstairs and might have some info to share.

"So, you're saying you remember who you are, what you are," Sam asked.

"Yes. Of course. Oh. Outside today, in the garden, I followed a honeybee. I saw the route of flowers. It's all right there, the whole plan. There's nothing to add," Castiel answered. He tried to please Sam Winchester, sharing the goodness that he saw earlier that day. It was the best moment of today, so he thought telling them about it would be a good gesture of hospitality. He was a fast learner, observing the ways of the humans quickly. He took pride in that.

"You might want to add a little Thorazine," Sam said to Meg. It was confusing to Castiel-why did Sam respond to Meg, instead of to him? Perhaps he is giving professional suggestion to his caretaker as an exchange of good news. Yes, that must be it. He was happy to know that Sam still cared for him, after all the things he had put him through. Though his deepest bond goes to Dean, Sam is still considered a very valuable friend, whose forgiveness is always much appreciated.

"Right? He's been like the naked guy at the rave ever since he woke up. Totally useless," Meg responded. Castiel had not paid much attention to her since Dean arrived, and, truth be told, he did not dare to, either.

He could not foretell what would happen to his hallucination in the company of the real Dean. He feared that the result would be catastrophic-and it was. Meg was still Dean, though in comparison, he had become obviously different from the real deal. His own Dean was a lot friendlier, much more loving, and so…forgiving. He knew that despite his greatest effort, the real Dean did not appreciate his gestures, and was merely being politely calm. Castiel was an angel, after all, and as such could easily see through human emotions. Dean was still extremely angry at Castiel, though he tried greatly to conceal it. The conflict between his own Dean and the real Dean Winchester manifested through Meg's appearance, and the hallucinated Dean began to morph into something of an intermediate. He was both demonic and human, painful and persistent, loving and furious, all at the same time. Dean was beautiful, more beautiful than the actual Dean, and that made Castiel's born-again sanity tremble dangerously.

"Will you look at her? My caretaker. All of that thorny pain. So beautiful."

"We've been over this. I don't like poetry. Put up or shut up," Meg snapped back. Castiel was saddened by her reaction, but he must concentrate on the actual Dean as of right then. Things were getting very delicate, and he must handle it with extreme care.

So, he answered swiftly the many questions Dean and Sam threw at him. He even raised enough courage to hug Dean-of course, he did not forget to include Sam, who is a good friend, but his primary focus was to show Dean his most sincere apology. Castiel remembers watching over the first humans who showed each other affection thus. Today, he rejoices to know, the custom has not lost its meaning. "Oh, I love you guys," Castiel said as he embraced the two beautiful Winchesters.

"Oh. Uck. Okay. All right. Okay," Dean awkwardly responded to Cas's abrupt group hug. He should've known that this nutty angel would turn anything into an awkward hug. Dean could feel Cas's arm wrapped around him, and he noticed that Cas was surprisingly clean, and smelt good. It was kind of a surprise, because before coming in, he thought Cas would be in a much worse condition. Right before Meg let them in, he told his little brother that he wasn't exactly "fired up to see what's left of the guy."

"You think he remembers at all?" Sam asked, and Dean saw in his eyes the same worry that troubled him too.

"That, and I'm guessing whatever kind of hell baggage he lifted off of your plate. It's not gonna be pretty," Dean replied, and then Meg showed up, and here they were, in the middle of a continental awkward group hug. Balls.

"Yeah, yeah. You-you said something about 'The Word.' Is that what's written on there?" Sam pats Castiel on his back gently and inquired. Castiel panicked again, because this time he had no answer in stock. He had no idea how to read the Words of God, but he did not want to disappoint Sam and Dean, not again.

Thus, Castiel, an angel of the Lord, spat out one random piece of information on the top of his head and told Sam: "Did you know that a cat's penis is sharply barbed along its shaft? I know for a fact the females were not consulted about that."

"Cas, please, we're losing ground out there, okay? We need your help. Can you not see that?" Dean was angry. Very angry, but he worded himself well, as he always had. Castiel lost the courage to look at him again, and stole a quick glance at his own Dean, standing by his right side. Castiel wasn't sure which one he preferred-the perfect Dean, or the Dean before him, furious at him but at the same time caring enough to not unleash all the hidden wrath beneath that handsome vessel.

Castiel knew that it all had to be resolved at some point-he couldn't always see two Deans at the same time. He had to make a choice, but the entirety of his Grace wanted to avoid the ultimate dilemma. This image of perfection in his mind was surely a wretched legacy of the lunacy he just woke up from.

That's when everything went horribly wrong.

"Okay, this all sounds bad. What are you two jackasses doing with the Word of God? Let me see that thing," Dean demanded and stepped toward Dean.

"Back off, Dean," Dean said, his eyes squinting slightly in alert.

"Come on, it's my ass, too," Dean insisted to take the Word of God, but Dean wouldn't let her.

"Back off," Dean growled as he held the Tablet tightly. Castiel's juvenile sanity struggled very hard to stay intact, but the image of two Deans fighting each other was simply too much. The intensity of the situation continued to worsen as Castiel found it increasingly more difficult to remain calm. He did not like this at all, Dean fighting against Dean, all because he failed to decipher the Words of God. Castiel began to feel the lunacy building inside of him again, gaining more strength as his Dean and the real Dean argued.

"Damn it! Enough of this 'demons are second-class citizens' crap!" Meg's complaint was the last straw that struck Castiel down. His Dean, a demon? But he just barely convinced himself that both Deans were equals. He was trying to find a balance between the two, but Meg's reminder shattered all his efforts.

"Don't like conflict," he said, and zapped out of the room, where solitude may bring him comfort. Today is not a Thursday, it is not Castiel's day.

＊＊＊

"What the hell was that?" Dean exclaims in frustration. He already expected that Cas would be bad, but not in this way. Cas could be anywhere now, with his angel zapping abilities and all. Damn it, Cas! What is he thinking?

"You heard him. He doesn't like conflict. He's down in the dayroom now. I guarantee it," Meg says. It frustrates Dean even more that Meg should know so much about Castiel. He and Cas used to be best pals, and even though all those crap happened between now and then, Dean still cannot accept the fact that a demon knows more about Cas than he does.

He frowns and decides that this is not the time to get all jealous. They need answers. They need it now. "All right, I'll go handle Cas. Sam, will you please pick up the Word of God?"

"Yeah," Sammy says, and Dean immediately leaves the room. He simply needs to see Cas right now, to see what he remembers and what he has to say about…about all this crap. He needs to know more about this Metatron that Cas mentioned earlier. There is nothing more important than their mission here right now.

Dean runs down the hallway, quickly searching for the dayroom. The ward is empty, presumably because all the mental patients are resting already. The building smells of wet concrete and freshly cut grass, which is quite pleasant, but Dean has no time to enjoy the scent. He must find Cas, and he must find him quick. Crazy thoughts appear and disappear in his mind, racing each other until his heart starts to pound heavy. Has Cas completely lost it? It certainly seemed so, back in the room. Why was he acting like this? Even Sammy didn't act like a crazy hippy when he carried the insanity. There must be something really, really wrong with Cas. What if he completely loses it and starts hurting people? With all the angel mojo he has on him, Dean worries that maybe one day he will have to put Cas down like he has to with all monsters. Will Cas become a monster? Goddamn it, Cas.

Dean finally finds the dayroom toward the end of the Hall. The door is half ajar, but the room is dark and unlit. He holds up his gun-you can't ever be too careful dealing with supernatural crap-and carefully pushes the door fully open. Once he makes certain that the room is safe, he swiftly flips the switch and turns on the light. It turns out to be quite spacious, with numerous tables and chairs there and here. Having been in a funny farm before, Dean knows that this is where the crazies, at least those who are still able, socialize with each other. He quickly glances through the tables, and finds Castiel sitting in front of one of the tables silently, with his back to Dean. He cannot make out what Castiel is doing, hell, he can't even understand Castiel at all at this point. When have these jobs turn into endless series of crap that just won't stop? It used to be so simple, burning bones and going Chuck Norris with 'em vamps. Now he has to deal with a nutty angel.

Dean walks up to Castiel, and sees him mumbling something quietly, his eyes staring down at the floor. This sight evoked some pity and sadness in Dean, and for a very brief moment he hesitated to say anything. What should he say? Castiel has completely lost it now. He saw this coming. He knew that it was too much on Cas's plate, even for an angel. Dean saw what it did to Sammy, and he remembers all that Death has told him about this madness. He looks at Castiel's face, the almost childish looking sorrow on it, and just how lost the angel looks right now. An angel of the Lord sits before him, and he cannot think of anything to say that might cheer him up except "I forgive you." But that can't happen, Dean can't lie about this. He's still angry, furious even, at what Castiel has done. He trusted Crowley more than he trusted Dean.

"You realize you just broke God's Word?" Dean finally says, but he regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth. He meant to talk business, but why did it have to come out this way? Castiel looks even sadder now, his eyes avoiding contact with Dean's. Damn it, Cas, why won't you look at me?

Dean grabs the nearest chair and sits himself down across Castiel. He can't stand looking at Cas like this. "It's Sam's thing, isn't it? You taking on his, uh, cage-match scars. I'm guessing that's what broke your bank, right?"

"Well, it took... everything to get me here," Castiel says. Dean isn't sure what he means-is he saying that he doesn't have enough mojo to zap around anymore? Dean feels a frustration building up in him. Time is a luxury he can't have right now. He needs direct answers, answers that will set everything straight.

"What are you talking about, man?"

"Dean, I know you want different answers," Castiel truly wishes that Dean can understand. When he teleported away from that room, he did not come directly to the dayroom. Instead, he escaped to a random field in central Australia, where it was day and very heated. He sat there in the open, contemplating, recollecting every detail of the fiasco he just made of his reintroduction to Dean and Sam. Dean must be even angrier now, but Castiel simply couldn't stand the conflict between his two Deans. But he also heard what Dean was talking about-the Word of God has been unearthed, and there must be angels chasing after it. The prophet will come, and with the archangels all dead (Castiel winced again at this horrible atrocity that he himself caused) who knows what the Heaven will send them. He must go back and protect the Winchesters. He owes them that much.

It took everything for Castiel to go back to that mental ward. It took the Winchesters.

"No, I want you to button up your coat and help us take down the Leviathans. Do you remember what you did?" Dean keeps asking.

Castiel opens his mouth, but words fail to pour out. What Dean asks for are the memories of damnation, of absolute horror and chaos. His vessel deteriorating, his Grace tainted with the Leviathans' greed and hunger, and all those men and women and angels he butchered-all these come twirling and growling and writhing in him. Castiel opens his mouth and tries to speak, but he simply cannot. It is as if all the horrible things he did have clogged this vessel, allowing nothing to come in and nothing to go out.

In desperate defeat, the angel holds up the nearest board game and arranges it on the table. During his days here he has had some fortunate episodes of consciousness in the dayroom, where all the patients are encouraged to socialize with one another, or at least be in the presence of peers. Meg would have no patience doing anything with him, of course, but Dean often stood behind him silently. He has always wanted to interact with Dean in a less stressful situation. His previous encounters with the Winchesters have always taken place in times of dire needs. He never could have the opportunity to-how would Dean word it-hang out with the Winchester boys.

"Do you want to go first?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, Cas? This is Dean. Listen, man, I don't know if you can hear me, you seemed pretty worn out back in the funny farm. I'm sorry I had to use the blood sigil, I had to get rid of those angels and you happened to be in the room too. Listen, Cas, I'm on the wheels with Sammy and Meg and your little prophet, and things really aren't swell right now. I know it's hard for you, what with Sammy's crazy on you and all, but hey, I really need your help right now, okay? Cas, we all need you right now. If you can hear me, please just come back. Please, just..pull it together, man."

Castiel listens to Dean's prayer as he sits amidst an agitated crowd in Perth. However much time he has spent with the humans, it seems as though Castiel will never fully understand them. They surround an oval shaped field right now, shouting and cursing at numerous unhappy dogs chasing after what seems to be a moving painting of a rabbit. The drawing is really rather lacking in aesthetic beauty, and not even a very scientifically inaccurate depiction of the lovely species at that. Castiel fails to comprehend the purpose of all this excitement.

"Look, I'm still mad at you for dealing with Crowley and going all jihad before, but you're with us now, Cas, you're back. And that's what's important. I've got a demon with a criminal history and a prophet on my backseat, and there's a crap load of your angel pals chasing after my ass, so I could really use your help, man. Please, just come back to me."

Castiel closes his eyes and tries to locate Dean, but to no avail. He has warded the boys so well that even he cannot find them without knowing their exact situation. Castiel lets out a sigh and continues to observe the large, unhappy dogs as they race through the oval court. This is indeed a sorry world, in which men thrive on the misfortune of others, beasts and other men alike. They run in circles, chasing each other's rabbits, frustrated and angst, focusing too much on the chasing of the rabbits to notice that it is really just a painting-and a shabby one, for that matter. Castiel much rather prefers the bees. So determined, so sure of their goal, and so competent in reaching it. And the best part is that no shabby paintings are involved.

Wait, is Dean the rabbit? He feels an unease building up in him, and begins to fish for his mobile telephone device in the pockets of his trench coat.

"Meg, are you there?"

Dean is sitting behind the wheel, a familiar frustration filling him up until no words can come out at all. He stares at the road before him, frowning and trying to maintain his calm. Castiel is sitting in the backseat now, with Meg and Kevin. He zapped in the car like an hour ago or so, after he talked to Meg on the phone. Sammy is dozing off on his right, his breathing slightly audible. With an angel, a demon, and a prophet sitting in his backseat, Dean can't help but wonder what the heck happened to his life that has turned his babe into a cheap joke.

"Dean, you are frustrated," Castiel says quietly. Apparently, angels don't need any seat belts, because Castiel suddenly leans forward and wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders. "Do you want to share? My experience in the dog race has utterly changed my views on humanity. I think I may be one of you now, except for my Grace and my wings."

They have just finished discussing the entire prophet situation, and frankly Dean just wants to get to Rufus's cabin as quickly as possible. He lets out a big sigh and shakes Castiel's hands off. The crazy angel, however, insists on giving him an awkward hug from the backseat, and wraps his arms around Dean again, this time tighter.

"Do you feel like a rabbit, Dean?"

"What?" Dean frowns as he realizes, again, how messed up Castiel's marbles really are. "What are you talking about, man?"

"Do you feel like a crappy old painting of a rabbit, Dean?"

Castiel's arms are a bit cold because, naturally, angels aren't homeothermic. Dean wonders if Castiel has to stay in the sun to energize himself, like an iguana. Castguana-that's an image alright. His frown deepens as he begins to worry that Cas's craziness might turn out to be contagious.

"No, I don't feel like a rabbit. Now would you sit back and put on your seatbelt please, Cas?"

Castiel murmurs something in his mouth, but it dissolves into the humming of his Impala's engine before Dean can catch anything. Damn it, Cas. It's like talking to a five-year-old. Dean lets out another heavy sigh and tries to concentrate on driving.

The road beyond is dark and long, and though he knows he's driving toward Rufus's cabin, Dean feels just as lot as Cas must be. The angel-the damned angel-has always said that they share a profound bond, but do they really? Of the countless prayers Dean has sent, how many actually got answers to? SItuations are very special for the Winchester family, that prayers unanswered don't just create a theological frustration that Dean can shake off by going to church. It's actually freagin' annoying when his prayers aren't answered, because he freagin' knows that Cas can hear them.

"So, Cas," Dean says as he secures a quick sneak at the backseat and makes sure that Meg is asleep, "uh…how was Perth?"

"Large, very unhappy dogs aside? It was very agitated. Your kind never ceases to amaze me, so much energy that radiates and fills the field…it was a very transcending experience," Cas answers as he tries to lean forward again to be nearer to Dean, but the driver insists that Cas be seated properly and demands him to sit back.

"Uh, that's…that's great. You need some sunshine," the image of a Casguana sitting lazily beneath the sun pops out again in Dean's head for a very brief moment, right before he shakes it off with his real intent. "Listen, Cas, can I ask you a question?"

"As long as I have the answer for it," Cas says. His time in Perth has helped him greatly in the clearing of his mind. For instance, Meg's face has gone back to the demonic horror that it really is, and there is but one Dean now, at least temporarily. The guilt and shame in him, however, remain, and though they are diminished somewhat by the punishment he has put onto himself, they continue to drive Castiel to try as best he can to compensate for the horrible things he has done to Dean. "Actually, anything, really. You can ask me about anything, Dean."

"Okay, uh, thank you, Cas. I appreciate that," Dean says, keeping his eyes straight on the road ahead.

"You know me, always willing to answer the WInchesters,"-especially Dean, really, but Castiel thinks that it would be very inappropriate to leave out Sam. Playing favorites is never a good thing, he recalls.

"Why did you not answer my prayer, man?" Dean asks after few seconds of hesitation.

"Which one are you referring to? Was it the one about feeling alone when you and Sam had an unsettling argument? Or was it the other one, in which you express how much trouble you're in and how you want me to be with you?" Castiel inquires. Throughout the years they have formed a rather strong friendship, and Dean has slowly acquired the habit of praying to him in times of distress. Castiel's angel radio-as Dean calls it-is usually receptive to human prayers solely on Thursdays, so he initially missed out many prayers from Dean. Eventually, however, as Dean's prayers became more and more sincere and frequent, he has become exceptionally familiar with Dean's prayer frequency, thereby enabling him to hear his prayers on days other than Thursday.

"No, man, Jesus, don't word it like that. Actually, don't even say it out loud. Patient confidentiality, man. No, I'm talking about just now, when you were at Perth. Did you hear my prayer? Why did you have to call Meg?"

"Well, first there are your ribs, and then your car-I'm not bragging, of course, but I am proud of my art-and the dogs, they were just so distractingly frustrated, Dean. You can't begin to grasp-"

"But you called Meg," Dean's sure as hell able to more than begin to grasp how frustrated the dogs were. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Well, the circumstances didn't quite allow me to call you. Plus, I do feel less anxious talking to my caregiver than to you, Dean," Castiel explains somewhat nervously, his voice clearly hesitant. Dean takes another glance at him in the mirror, this time in even greater confused frustration.

"What do you mean, less anxious? She's a demon, Cas. Aren't you hardwired to be anxious around her?"

"Well, I…" Castiel can sense the intensity of Dean's voice, which now is right on the brink of becoming a low growl of an agitated beast. The angel realizes that what he said must have triggered something in Dean's head, and that he must now handle the situation, again, with extreme care. He tries to recall what might have angered Dean thus-was it because he missed some subtext comprehensible only in the ears of a human native? Or, rather, was it simply the result of a night-long of driving? After a few moments of meditation, Castiel finally answers: "Dean, you must understand, no matter how hard I try, I'll never be fully human. Your kind is very artful and very difficult to understand, which is why I personally favor the bees more…they are a very studious and straight forward kind. Except their dances maybe, which can prove to be quite hard to-"

"Damn it, Cas, what the hell are you talking about?" Dean regrets having even started this conversation at all now. He might as well be watching animal planet.

"Isn't it obvious? My point is, if ever you feel too tired, Dean, I am always willing to drive for you."

"No, thanks, I got Jesus as my copilot," Dean says sarcastically and stops trying completely. There's no use in talking to Castiel at this point-he begins to fear that the old Cas is never coming back. That familiar angel who once stood by him with his perpetual awkward sincerity is just…gone.

"Ah, the one we sent to Bethlehem? Yes, he is very helpful, although you have largely exaggerated his abilities. In fact, I doubt that he can drive at all-" Cas gladly adds, encouraged by Dean's positive reply. He can sense that Dean's agitation has been diminished by his strategically premeditated speech. Castiel finds much comfort in knowing that he and Dean are again on a good term now. There is still hope of making it up to Dean after all.

"Alright, Cas, alright. You better get some rest before we get to Rufus's. We got work to do there," Dean waves his right hand and signals Castiel to sit back and stop talking while his other hand remains on the wheel.

"I don't need rest, and you know that, Dean," Castiel says, but still complies and sits back down with Kevin and Meg, both of whom are already sound asleep. "I'm a celestial wavelength. You are essentially asking a radio wave to fall asleep, Dean."

"Yeah, well, just sit back down, Cas, before I change the channel to something else," Dean can't help but roll his eyes slightly. It isn't just similar to talking to a five year old, it's exactly like talking to a freagin' five year old.

"Well, okay, but remember to turn me back on when we arrive at our destination," Castiel says jocularly, leans forward again, and touches Dean's nose with a mischievous "boop!" It is only then that he finally falls back and takes his long overdue rest.

"Damn it, Cas…" Dean murmurs to himself. Whatever are they going to do with this assbutt?

＊＊＊

It is already eleven o'clock at night when Rufus's cabin appears toward the end of the road. Dean lightly pats on Sam's shoulder and continues to wake the rest of the members of his crazy bad joke. Almost as soon as he makes a move, though, Castiel opens his eyes and woke up-if he ever was asleep to begin with.

Rufus's cabin is practically in the middle of nowhere, situated amidst wide, wide fields that stretch as far as human eyes can see. Dean parks his Impala beneath the old oak tree right outside of the shabby house, and proceeds to grab the weapons that they need for the rest of their stay here. Sam guides Kevin into the cabin, and Castiel and Meg walk in together, whispering something to each other. "That can't be natural," Dean murmurs to himself, as he takes out a fifth shotgun and shoves it into his duffle.

Dean and Sam spend about an hour to clear up everything and make the cabin slightly more habitable for the three guests, and settle them in. Afterwards, Sam pulls out a bunch of books and journals, and begins to ward the cabin against demons and angels with Castiel. They each hold a chalk stick and draw sigils after sigils of protective magic. When they have finally finished warding the place, the night is already well passed midnight.

"Let's leave off angel-proofing sigils or I'll be expelled, too," Castiel says as he finishes the last touch.

"As long as we're invisible to your Garrison buddies, it works for me," Sam replies, closes Rufus's journal and puts it on the table. "Do you want a cold one?"

"Perth was quite heated, and I think I may have acquired a taste for the weather. Bees don't like cold weathers, you know, because the flour routes they die. But no thank you," Castiel answers, showing Sam an appreciative smile.

"Uh, well, alright then. Are you sure?" Sam asks as he grabs a bottle of beer out the fridge. He still feels very uneasy seeing Castiel like this. Sam's madness has obviously changed Castiel in ways that may be permanent. Death himself has warned them about how devastating it is, and even though Cas is an angel, Sam is very uncertain as to whether Castiel can ever fully recover. He is really grateful that Cas was willing to do this for him, but he's still saddened by Cas's odd behaviors.

Just once in his very weary journey with his brother, Sam thought that maybe they have made a friend who could last long. Jo is gone, as are Ash, Ellen, Rufus, and Bobby-almost everyone who ever was even remotely close to being a friend is now dead. Sam has had his normal days in Stanford, and he is well aware of the importance of friendship in a person's life. Cas was a very close friend who might have been able to help Dean with this. His older brother is in a dire need of an actual friend, and not just overcompensate for it with excessive sex.

"Yeah, no thanks," Castiel says and continues to smile at Sam. He sits down after Sam, and senses that an important conversation is to take place. Knowing that Sam is in much emotional distress, he decides to approach him first. Taking the initiative is very important in maintaining a friendship, he recalls. "You seem troubled. Of course, that's a primary aspect of your personality, so I sometimes ignore it."

"Okay. Um...right now I'm just wondering about you," Sam inquires worriedly.

About him? Castiel is glad to know that Sam has shown him, again, much amiability. This is a sure sign of his reconciliation with the Winchesters. "What about me? You're worried about the burden I lifted from you."

"I think I was done for. Do you see Lucifer?"

"I did at first. But that was... It was a projection of yours, I think, sort of an aftertaste. Now I more see... well, everything," and a lot of Dean, of course, but Castiel thinks that it would be an inappropriate topic to discuss with Dean's only brother. Flashbacks of their friendly kisses in the hospital rush into Castiel's mind, and his vessel uncontrollably begins to blush. Castiel uses the power of his Grace to conceal the rosy hue on his cheeks. He looks up, and sees his own Dean sitting right across the room. He is watching in withdrawn interest, his cheekbones protruding under the artificial lighting of this cabin. Castiel tries to stop himself from looking at Meg again.

"It's funny. I was – I was done for, too. The weight of all my mistakes, all those lives and souls lost, I... I couldn't take it, either. I was… I was lost until I took on your pain. It's strange to think that that helped, but –" but now it is all crystal clear. Castiel will make up for all the horrors he has caused, beginning with the reconciliation with Dean Winchester.

"I know you never did anything but try to help. I realize that, Cas, and I'm grateful. We're all grateful," Sam sees the trouble in Castiel's eyes, and tries to encourage him. He knows that Cas never wanted any of this to happen-he just got carried away and lost control of the situation. Forgiveness doesn't come easily to Sam, but in this case, there is nothing to forgive to begin with. Castiel is not evil, he's just been trying to help-though he himself may not realize it. "And we're gonna help you get better, okay? No matter what it takes."

"What do you mean, better?" Castiel is confused by what Sam has suggested. Does he not know that the madness is incurable? Or did Sam merely mean that he wants to make him feel better?

"Well, I…" Sam opens his mouth, but he has no idea how the rest of his sentence should go. What can they do that would make Castiel better? The angel's only coping so well because he's, well, an angel. Should Castiel have been a mortal man, he would've ended up exactly where Sam was, completely crazy and even catatonic.

Castiel notices that Sam's thoughts are very mixed, so he stops talking to Sam and instead turns to the television, which sits across the living room and is off. There is so little that he understands about humanity that Castiel feels as though he is fighting a battle that isn't truly there. He wants to make amends with Dean and Sam, but it does not seem like they are exceptionally receptive.

"I will go to the bees now," Castiel decides to leave Sam to his meditation. He has often found solitude to be helpful in his thinking process, so Castiel judges it beneficial that Sam be left alone. He teleports to the cabin's basement, where Dean and Kevin are at, and made himself invisible. It would be unwise if he zaps anywhere outside of the cabin-too many angels are looking for him, and he cannot risk bringing them to Dean and Sam.

Dean sits on a chair half asleep. The prophet is reading the Tablet, his hands shaky and his hair damp with sweat. There are already notes accumulating on the table in front of him, scattered and disorganized with phrases and words on them. The prophet is a talented one, the speed of his growth in the understanding of Metatron's writing exceeding every prophet whose name follows him on the list. Castiel silently walks up behind him, looking at Kevin's progress behind his back. The angel stands there, unseen by any mortal eyes and unheard by any living souls. This is the state he is most accustomed to for the past thousands of years. He used to watch over the humans and guide them without a trace. Now, well, now he spends the majority of his time interacting with them, living with them. Had he not gone astray in his previous war against Raphael, he might even call the Winchesters his closest friends-or, in the case of Dean Winchester, something even more profound than mere friends. Castiel does not yet quite understand the nature of his bond with Dean, but he does know that it is much more intimate than camaraderie.

But everything has changed now. Castiel turns his head and looks at Dean, on whose face now reign fatigue and sorrow. These are the monsters that Dean will never be able to kill, but will forever keep secrets. Castiel has on multiple occasions walked into the dreams of Dean Winchester, and the things he sees-the horrible things Dean dreams of-truly made him compassionate. He would occasionally join Dean in his most peaceful of dreams, which usually are either of starry nights with Sam or fishing alone by the lake, and just be with the man. The presence of the angel itself used to soothe Dean's mood, as if somehow, even without knowing that Castiel was there, Dean was at greater calm just with the angel's silent and unnoticed company.

Castiel leaves Kevin and walks towards Dean. He wants to walk into his dreams, but Castiel is uncertain as to whether the madness in his Grace would affect Dean. He can't take that risk, and so the angel just stands by him, quiet, sorrowful, and vulnerable-just as Dean is. This beautiful man has warded himself, quite literally, against everything there is that might harm him in his waking hours. It didn't use to be like this, but the angel knows that Dean's very long list of potential enemies now includes Castiel. And that makes him extremely depressed, for Castiel has but two causes to live for after his departure from the mental hospital.

He must rebuild heaven and make up for what he has done back at home, and he must make amends with Dean and earn his trust again.

Castiel stares at Dean Winchester's beautiful face in graceful silence. For how long his saddened eyes observed this unfortunate, thorny beauty that now escapes from painful reality into slumber, every bit of Castiel's madness disappeared. He is completely at peace. Castiel bends over, as Meg did every night in the hospital, and presses a kiss, ever so light, on Dean's lips. The man's eyelids trembled, but the angel's action is so careful that the kiss did not stir him away from his dreams. Dean remains asleep for the rest of the night, or what little there is left of it, as Kevin and Castiel both sit quietly by him, one diligent and one pensive-but both engulfed by their confusion and fear of what's to come tomorrow, and the days after tomorrow.


End file.
